Credence

by Penelope Douglas

  I swallow. It’s the teal and black design.

  “I liked that one,” I murmur.

  But it looks too…I don’t know…Beetlejuice? I thought it was childish.

  I stare at the amateur sketch and pick up my pencil and ruler, adding more stripes to the drawers.

  “I used to do so many drawings when I was little,” I tell him. “My house with trees and a rainbow. I’d put it on the refrigerator for my parents to see. Display it really pretty and nice and high, so they’d notice it when they got home.”

  His hand remains planted on the table at my side, and I pick up the black pencil, shading stripes.

  “I was so excited by how dreamy the picture was,” I go on. “There was so much color, I just wanted to jump into it like it was one of the chalk drawings in Mary Poppins.” I laugh a little. “Kind of precious and magical.”

  I switch out the pencil, picking up a teal one as a lump forms in my throat.

  All I can manage is a whisper. “Hours later, I’d find them hidden in the trash.” I flex my jaw as needles prick my throat. “They didn’t go with the décor.”

  Tears rise up from my chest. I’d forgotten about that. But now—years later—it hurts more than ever. Couldn’t they have kept it up for a day? Was it impossible to say one nice thing?

  I want to break, to let it go, but he catches me just in time. Suddenly, I feel him. His lips in my hair as he leans over me.

  I close my eyes and stop breathing as the silent house surrounds us. He holds me. Barely touching me, he holds me.

  Chills spread down my arms as his mouth grazes my hair. He inhales, like he’s drawing in my scent, and I pause in my work as he reaches around and cups my face.

  His nose trails down my temple, his hot breath heavy on my cheek.

  Like he’s struggling.

  Bringing his other hand up, he holds me to him as my whole body warms under the blanket of him.

  No kissing. No touching anywhere else.

  Just warmth. He’s not in control and neither am I, and even though my nerves fire under my skin and my blood races, my fingers don’t fist and my muscles don’t tense anymore. I feel safe.

  And when he wraps his arms around me, holding me tight, I fight to keep the tears away again.

  Kaleb.

  He just holds me. Or holds onto me. Either way, I don’t want it to ever be over.

  I know what he wants, though, so it can’t ever start. He can’t do this, and I can’t let it happen.

  I pull my face away, out of his hold, and it almost makes me sick, because I don’t want to lose his touch, but…

  “I guess a slut is good enough,” I mumble. “When you’re desperate enough.”

  Pulling away from him, I pick up my pencil, feeling him stand there frozen as I quickly dry my eyes and keep working.

  I wait for him to explode. To spit on me or handle me like he always does, because he throws tantrums when he doesn’t get what he wants, but…

  He just leaves—pushes off the table, turns around, and leaves.

  I don’t see him for the rest of the day.

  I curl my dry toes inside my socks and warm boots, the cold from the snow starting to seep through as I tip my face back and let it stick to my nose and lashes.

  I twirl, faking some ballet, and I can see Jake watching me from over by the barn, probably shaking his head as he tosses tennis balls for the dogs to fetch.

  What? Growing up in Southern California, I don’t get to experience much precipitation. It just makes my day, is all.

  I stop, the world spinning, and I finally lock eyes with him and see him trying not to smile but failing miserably.

  I don’t care if I look like an imbecile. I was miserable three months ago, and now I’m not. I jog over to him, the snow crunching under my feet as Noah and Kaleb load up his snowmobile and disappear back inside the shop.

  I look after Kaleb. “Is he going with you?” I ask Jake.

  “Nope.”

  “Doesn’t he usually?”

  I was kind of counting on Kaleb to join Jake on his four-day foray up to their other cabin. It’s where Kaleb was when I first got to town, and I’ve since learned he and Jake like to spend time there whenever they don’t have a deadline looming. They use it for extended hunting trips or when they want to be closer to better fishing.

  It’s definitely not a place that can fit all of us, and there’s no electricity, WiFi, or plumbing, so I’m out, but I’m told it’s beautiful, especially in the summer.

  I might not be here to see it, though.

  Jake simply shrugs at my question, and I gather he doesn’t know why Kaleb is hanging back, either. I can deal with Noah on my own. Especially since he’s backed off since the night in the shop under the bike a couple weeks ago.

  And Kaleb has barely looked at me once in that time, either.

  I look longingly at the scruff Jake is growing like a winter coat or something. I guess I can get ahead on some schoolwork while he’s away.

  “This was a good idea,” he says.

  I follow his gaze as he heads just inside the barn. We stop at the coop and the monster truck tires Noah helped me cut in half. Three halves are stacked on top of each other, the insides filled with hay and chickens.

  I grin. “Re-appropriation of materials and it’s supposed to do a good job of blocking the wind,” I inform him.

  Another of my DIY projects. The animals seem quite content in their winter homes.

  “You going to be okay tonight?” he asks.

  I almost laugh.

  But then I remember the last time I was alone with both boys at the same time without him.

  “Probably not,” I tease. “You should take me with you.”

  His gaze turns heated, and I watch as his eyes drop down my body for a moment.

  I don’t want to rough it like that exactly, but it wouldn’t be a chore keeping him company.

  “I’d spend all my time trying to keep you warm,” he mumbles.

  Yeah, probably.

  Visions flood my brain of us, a bed, and a fire. Who needs food?

  I smirk to myself.

  “What?” he asks.

  I force my smile away. “Nothing.”

  He looks at me suspiciously, and I smile again despite myself.

  He rolls his eyes and yanks the strings of my cap down, the top covering my eyes as he walks away.

  “I like the hat,” he tells me.

  I push it back, feigning a scowl as both of us head out of the barn.

  Swiping the page on my Kindle, I hear the buzzer on the dryer go off and reach for the basket. I hesitate, quickly skimming the rest of the paragraph before setting the device down.

  Opening up the dryer, I pull out my clothes. Comparative economic systems in various government types… This class might’ve been better taken in person. Not that it’s particularly difficult to follow, but I have questions and talking to the Van der Berg men about world issues would be like watching Yoda get a manicure.

  Jake doesn’t vote, because “as long as they stay off my peak, we’ve got no problems.” As if tax laws, pollution, or nuclear war will respect his property line. Noah doesn’t vote, because “that seems like work,” and I’m pretty sure Kaleb just doesn’t care.

  Mirai would be good for some conversation. I’m overdue calling her anyway.

  I reach in, pulling out the rest of my clothes, and pick up the basket, kicking the dryer door closed before I head upstairs. Once in my room, I dump on the clothes on my bed.

  I pick out my jeans and all the clothes that need to be hung up, laying those in a separate pile, and I reach back in, searching for all my underwear and bras.

  I sift through the clothes, pulling out my blue lacy pair and the black bra, but as I search through the items of clothing, I don’t see anything else.

  I frown.

  This load is six days’ worth of clothes. Where did five pairs of panties go?

  I search again, finding my two borin
g sports bras, but still, no underwear. They may be stuck in jeans or on some shirts, but as I continue to tear through the pile, I don’t see them.

  What the hell?

  I stop and think. Jake tore a pair weeks ago in the truck, but that should be all I’m missing. I search my drawers, under my bed, in my bed, and in the bathroom before heading back down to the laundry room and scanning the floor. I check inside the washer and drawer, thinking I may have accidentally left some.

  But nothing.

  The only other place would be…

  Heading back upstairs, I enter Jake’s room, hearing him in the shower as he gets ready to head out on his fishing trip, and kneel down, looking underneath the bed, tables, and inside the sheets.

  I didn’t take them off anywhere else but here or my room.

  Where…

  And then it hits me.

  I wince. “Ugh, Jesus.”

  Charging over to Noah’s room, I find it empty as he and Kaleb still work out in the shop, and start looking in his bed, in his pillowcase, under his pillow…

  So nasty. Please tell me he wouldn’t do that. And with five pairs? Is he fourteen years old, for crying out loud?

  But after minutes of searching, I still don’t find anything.

  I slam his pillow down on the bed, losing patience. They didn’t just sprout legs.

  Then I raise my eyes, remembering the only place I have left to look.

  Kaleb.

  My pulse starts to race. He wouldn’t do that.

  Would he?

  The idea of Kaleb wrapping my little red panties around his…

  And then stroking it… I…

  I’m warm between my thighs all of a sudden, but I shake my head. It’s still a violation. And since his room is the only place left to look, I’ll violate him right back.

  Leaving Noah’s room, I shut the door and head toward the narrow, dark stairwell as the shower still runs in the bathroom. I hesitate only a moment before pushing myself up the stairs, my heart hammering at the idea of going somewhere I haven’t once seen yet.

  And at the idea of him catching me. I’d have to be quick. His temper sucks.

  I twist the doorknob, half expecting it to be locked from the outside, but it gives, and I enter, immediately seeing sunlight streaming in through the far window. Thank God. I don’t want to have to turn on a light and have him see it from the outside.

  Stepping in, I close the door softly behind me and look around the large room, suddenly forgetting why I’m here.

  I exhale, a smile playing on my lips. A large bed sits between two windows which must be the gables on the west side of the house—the same side my balcony faces right below him. Built-in bookshelves line the walls, spilling with books that are stuffed and stacked into every available space. Vertically, horizontally, on top of each other… Nothing has a dust jacket, and I know some of them have to be very old. He doesn’t read all these, does he? I’ve never seen him read.

  A Persian-style rug covers the floor, the visible dark wood scuffed and unpolished, and a small fireplace sits a few feet down the wall from the door I just came through. I walk over, seeing the charred remnants of logs he’s burned. I inhale, smelling the burned bark as well as something else. Almost like patchouli. Or bergamot.

  A table sits next to the wall with the belts and his supplies for working them, and I find more books on the floor next to his bed. The walls are pretty bare, but they’re not the lighter timber used in the rest of the house. This room looks like it’s something in the upstairs of an Old English pub. I’m surprised I don’t see old paintings on the walls.

  I walk over to the table, picking up a few of the animal bones and searching for more information. This room says so much.

  And still, so little.

  He likes leatherwork. He likes to read. I don’t see a TV, a computer, or any electronics, though I know he has a speaker up here or something, because I hear his music sometimes.

  It’s cozy, though. Dark, warm, and comfortable—a big, cushioned chair sitting in the corner of the room with another stack of books sitting next to it.

  Walking over to his bedside table, I open the drawer, finding only an old copy of The Three Musketeers, a pen, and some condoms. I pick up the book, smelling it.

  Tingles spread up my spine. It smells like the room.

  I bet it’s nice in here when the fire is lit. Quiet, peaceful… warm. I look down at the bed, my mouth going dry.

  I whip the sheet and blanket back, running my hands over his bed and searching for my panties. I’m guessing this is where he’d be when he jerked off with them.

  Finding nothing, I dive down to my hands and knees, crawling around the bed to check the floor.

  But as I reach the foot of the bed, I see something and stop. Three grooves are dug into the wood, and I reach out my hand, immediately fitting my forefinger, middle finger, and ring finger into the scratches.

  Something scratched the floor. Or someone.

  I lick my parched lips, the reality of the distance between the police and me finally dawning. It should’ve dawned months ago.

  Rising to my feet, I search his drawers, his other bedside table, and any other little nooks and crannies I can find, but nothing. This is fucking ridiculous. Jake isn’t the panty-raiding type, and Noah wouldn’t steal nearly every pair of sexy underwear I owned, because he’d want to see me wearing them! I know it’s Kaleb.

  I grab his pillow and dig inside, searching the last place I know of, and then take the other one, sticking my hand inside there, too.

  I feel something and stop, rubbing it between my fingers. Cloth, silky… I pull it out and look down at the red ribbon in my hand.

  The red hair ribbon.

  My red hair ribbon.

  Heat courses under my skin as heat pools in my belly.

  The corner of my mouth turns up in a sly smile. Well, it’s not my panties, but it’s mine. Tossing his pillow back down, I tie the ribbon into my hair into a sweet, little bow.

  It’s not much, but piece by piece, Kaleb is coming into view.

  He might hate me.

  But he thinks about me.

  “It’s so quiet.”

  Noah sits to my right, in his father’s seat, and I glance up, barely meeting his eyes before I look back down at my textbook. I take another bite of my biscuit, not replying.

  Jake left hours ago. I wished he’d left earlier, because it’s started snowing again, and now it’s dark. I hate the thought of him out there alone. Why didn’t Kaleb go with him? Or all of us? I could’ve sucked it up. We don’t need fish that badly.

  I turn the page, chewing my food as a shingle on the roof bangs in the wind and the ice maker drops new cubes in the freezer. The ribbon tickles my temple, and I fight not to smile as I feel Kaleb’s eyes boring into me from across the table.

  “I never really realized my father was the life of the party at dinner,” Noah adds, trying to get us to talk.

  But I’m enjoying Kaleb’s attention a little too much to make conversation right now.

  Noah reaches over and touches my ribbon. “This is cute.”

  I give him a smile but then flash my gaze to Kaleb, seeing his jaw flex.

  “So you want to watch a movie tonight?” Noah asks.

  “A movie?”

  “There’s a sequel where the same cops pick her up for smoking weed and take her back to the station house,” he tells me, wagging his eyebrows. “All night long. Lots of prisoners.”

  I chuckle. “Sounds hot.” I close my text and drop the rest of my biscuit to my plate, brushing off my hands. “But I have about fifteen critical responses to finish.”

  I rise, picking up my plate and glass.

  “I’ll make sure to avoid the living room, though,” I say, setting my dishes on the counter and turning around to grab my book and highlighter.

  But as I move around the table to go to my room, Noah slides his chair in front of me, blocking my way.

  I stop, str
aightening.

  His eyes glide down my body, like the oversized sweater and sleep shorts are just what he likes, but really, he’s just been without a woman for longer than he wants, and anything looks good at this point.

  His gaze trails back up, meeting mine again. “Come here,” he says.

  “Get out of my way.”

  His lips turn tight, his usual Noah-humor gone. “I said come here.”

  I glance at Kaleb who looks between his brother and me, tense but not ready to defend me yet.

  “He’s not gonna help you,” Noah tells me as if reading my thoughts.

  And then he reaches out, grabs my sweater, and pulls me into him, my book falling onto the floor as he pulls my knees around him. I straddle his lap, growling as he wraps an arm around my waist and locks one fist at the back of my scalp.

  I plant my hands on his chest, trying to push myself away, but he holds my hair tight.

  “Noah, stop it. You’re drunk.”

  The four empty beer bottles on the table clank as I struggle, kicking the leg of the table.

  “No, I’m bored.” He inches up toward my mouth. “I want to make love to you, Tiernan. I wanna fuck my father’s little whore.”

  I rear my hand back and slap him as hard as I can across the cheek. His face whips to the side, and he sucks in a breath. But he laughs, almost moaning with pleasure.

  “You want it, too,” he continues, looking up at me as he presses his groin into mine. “Ride me like this. Right here on this chair. Tell him I made you do it.” His hot breath on my mouth makes my skin tingle. “Tell him I made you do what you’re supposed to do for all the men in the house. Right here on the kitchen table every morning after you serve us our fucking breakfast.”

  I fist his T-shirt, the ridge of his cock in his jeans rubbing me through my thin shorts, and I breathe hard, still trying to push against his hold.

  He releases my hair and plants his forehead to mine, whispering to me. “I want you.” His breathing turns shallow, like he’s in pain. “I want you.”

  The longing in his voice seeps through, and even though my thighs are warm and there’s a longing for something more that I can’t explain—or don’t want to—I push him away.